


But in the wilds of human life / There are pretty knives, an array of gentle eyes

by possessedradios (orphan_account)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Elias "what is aftercare" Bouchard and Jonathan "I don't know either and I don't care" Sims, Knifeplay, M/M, Oh Yeah Also Jon Is Trans You Can't Change My Mind, Self harm mentioned/implied, So yeah anyway:, The work title was "Knifeplay babey!!!!!!" but u can't do that, Wannabe character study, and ur depressed and want some Actual Tangible Pain, tfw you're out there avatar-ing for a kinda-evil eldritch force and your boss uses u as a tool, violence mention, y'know? you feel?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 03:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16653718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/possessedradios
Summary: Jon is very sure that there’s a hint of genuine surprise on Elias’s face when he presses the sharp, smooth letter opener into his hand. It’s gratifying, a vague confirmation that he’s not inside his head all the time, too distracted, perhaps, with Jon straddling his lap– And that, too, is a thought he likes; comfortable, comforting.





	But in the wilds of human life / There are pretty knives, an array of gentle eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this is my first work for this fandom and I'm only a little sorry. ~~I have never written something like this ever before oops.~~
> 
> Title taken from Dead Alive by The Shins, I'm sorry, you don't know about my absurd love for horribly long titles yet.

Jon is very sure that there’s a hint of genuine surprise on Elias’s face when he presses the sharp, smooth letter opener into his hand. It’s gratifying, a vague confirmation that he’s not inside his head all the time, too distracted, perhaps, with Jon straddling his lap– And that, too, is a thought he likes; comfortable, comforting.

When he tries to figure out how exactly they ended up here, how this _started_ , this whole thing where Jon finds himself in Elias’s office, in his lap, he never quite succeeds – and he does think about it; he thinks about it often. This line of thinking is often linked to a dreadful, sharp feeling of shame (he’d needed weeks to correctly categorize it as that), but he doesn’t know whether the emotion is wholly his own, or if he’s too concerned with what Georgie might say to it. He doubt this was what she meant when she told him he’d need something to ground him. But it’s– It all blurs together, anyway, the weight of being assigned a role he’s not sure he’s comfortable with, doubling as something of a comfort blanket at the same time, having a purpose, having to _trust_ despite his better judgment; barely any place for paranoia– 

In the end it hardly matters, he supposes, how it all started. It hardly matters, now that he knows how soft Elias’s lips are and how good they feel on his neck. How the soreness of the marks he leaves lingers on his skin even for days after. It _is_ grounding and– and at the same time, not. Feels like falling. Feels like losing himself. 

(But then again, so does reading the statements, and this is, at least, something he has control over.)

((Or the illusion of it, anyway.))

 _You need anchors, Jon_ , he thinks, _remembers_ , and almost snorts.

He’s yanked back into reality when cool metal brushes against his cheek. Jon blinks and notices that Elias is looking at him intently, the flat side of the letter opener only barely pressed against his skin.

“You weren’t _listening_ , Jon,” Elias says, but there’s no actual annoyance, no edge to his voice. He just makes an observation, and he’s right, of course, Jon didn’t realize he’d been talking at all. He finds himself getting lost inside his own head rather frequently these days.

Not the concern now: All thoughts escape him when Elias moves the letter opener almost abruptly, and presses the pointed end against his throat ever so slightly. Jon’s breath hitches. He can feel how sharp it is – it scratches against his skin as he swallows, and there’s something like a half-smirk on Elias’s face. Not a trace of the initial surprise left.

“I asked,” Elias says slowly, voice low, “what exactly prompted you to provide me with … this.” The words are accompanied with a twist of his hand, and Jon holds his breath as the tip of the letter opener drags over his throat.

 _He could kill me_ , Jon thinks in a moment of almost painful clarity, and impetuously reaches for whatever piece of Elias’s shirt he can reach to clutch at it. A soft whine catches halfway in his throat, and he’s grateful for it, he thinks.

Elias, naturally, Knows, or seems to Know, at least, because his lips twitch up, and he pulls his hand back, letter opener turned away now. Jon tries hard to not analyze the emotion welling up inside him in reply, way too aware that he’d come to the conclusion that it’s most likely disappointment.

“My, my,” Elias says – purrs, almost – lips right next to Jon’s ear. “Will you look at that. Do you want to know what I appreciate most about you, Jon?”

Jon does, and Elias Knows.

“It’s that you always … somehow … manage to surprise me.” 

If Jon wasn’t already far beyond emotional responses like that, he’d be ashamed for how shaky his next exhale sounds, or for the warmth pooling in his chest at those words. Elias’s lips against his neck, now. Soft kisses, the hint of teeth, and then his voice, slightly muffled against his skin, “Are you sure you thought this through?”

He didn’t; reaching for the letter opener was an impulsive decision. He _didn’t_ , but he’s sure he wants this and he didn’t expect Elias to double check, presented with this opportunity. He trusts Elias. Trusts him in these moments.

He trusts him to not kill him, at the very least.

So he nods.

Elias smiles against his neck, he can feel it and part of him Knows it half a second earlier (and, oh, there’s always more of _that_ when he’s so close to Elias, of course. Knowing, just … _Knowing_.)

“Very well,” Elias says, straightening himself in his chair. The letter opener is placed back on his desk, Jon’s shirt tugged off quickly. Jon almost laughs when Elias neatly folds it before placing it next to the letter opener – he can’t remember the last time he actually folded any of his laundry, but this is, of course, Elias. Elias, who’s now trailing his fingertips along one of the straps of his binder, pushing underneath the spandex for a moment only to pull back immediately after. “I do believe it’s easier for _you_ to take it off. Unless, of course, you want me to _cut_ it off you.”

Jon glares at him as he lifts his arms to try and get the damned thing off as quickly as possible. “Absolutely not,” he says, struggling to pull the binder over his head. Elias assists, in the end, and tries to reach for it as soon as Jon’s finally managed to take it off completely. Jon doesn’t let him – he simply drops it to the floor. Elias frowns for a moment, and looks as if he’s, perhaps, about to protest, so Jon reaches behind himself to feel for the letter opener again, holding it out to Elias.

Elias sighs, but takes it nonetheless. “Impatient, aren’t we. Turn around.”

Jon complies with the order and turns around, still seated on Elias’s lap, but with his back turned towards him now. “Maybe you’re just too hesitant for my liking,” he says. The sarcasm in his voice is forced, and he’s sure Elias can hear it. After a second, he adds, “Or are you just afraid of getting blood on your precious tool?”

The way he can feel Elias shiver in response to his Asking is all the reason he had to put that much force behind it, and he doesn’t expect an answer; it was hardly a question deserving one – but he gets one anyway, a soft chuckle, and then, “Are you talking about the letter opener, or yourself, Archivist?”

He should have anticipated that. He wants to glare at him again, but he doesn’t get the chance to turn his head. Elias’s hand in his hair, suddenly, pulling his head up and back, sharp pain that makes him gasp, and then the sensation of the letter opener being pressed against his throat again, with more force this time. Jon stays very, very still. 

_He could kill me_ , he thinks again, _it would be so easy, but he won’t_. A soft noise escapes him, something between a sigh and a whimper. It sounds pathetic, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

“Who would have thought,” Elias says, voice low, just a murmur, “that you would insist on being placed in danger, here and now, in the close proximity of everything that is so eager to protect you?”

His hand in Jon’s hair tightens, and Jon moves, just slightly, just enough to make the pain more bearable, only to have the cool metal of the blade pressed more firmly against his throat. He stills again, breathes through his nose. It’s too loud, shaky, and he’s way too aware that for once, it’s not fear that lets adrenaline wash over him, through him. Something else, something far more pleasurable. 

Elias knows, of course. Jon is sure that he Knows everything else, too. That everything he just said is exactly the reason Jon wants – needs – this. The controlled environment, the unstable trust. 

“Well. Don’t worry about it. After all, I’m always happy to indulge you, isn’t that correct?” The words are accentuated by the slow movement of Elias’s wrist, dragging the tip of the letter opener over Jon’s skin in a motion that would slit his throat if carried out with just a little more force, a little more determination.

“Yes, sir,” Jon breathes, the words spill over his lips without thinking, and Elias doesn’t say anything, but Jon is certain that he can hear him smile. (He had smiled back then, too, weeks ago when Jon had called him that for the first time, unprompted, unthinking, just because it had felt right.)

“Good boy,” Elias says, a little too matter-of-factly, and releases Jon of his grip. He shifts in his chair, and just a moment later, the letter opener is pressed against his back.

“Don’t scream. I’d hate for Melanie to walk in on us like that.”

Jon nods, tries to brace himself for the pain.

The first cut can’t really be called that and barely hurts at all. It’s hardly more than a scratch, and most of all he hears the metal scraping over his skin, and for a moment he’s back _there_ , with Nikola–

_(in a dark room tied to a chair and in front of him a woman that isn’t a woman a mockery of a human being holding a obscenely large kitchen knife that he realizes is rusty the closer she brings it and then she’s scratching just the tip of it over his cheek his arm his stomach his leg with a nauseating sound that will follow him into his dreams and she’s telling him exactly how she will go about when she eventually skins him how she will wear the Archivist’s Skin how she will dance she will dance and it will be delightful so delightful it will be a new world and she will dance and all the while there’s the faint sound of a tape recorder running right next to them and)_

–and Elias’s free hand goes to his hip and tightens there. The pressure is what brings him back, and Jon squeezes his eyes shut, relieved, and wonders if Elias can somehow Sense what he’s been thinki–

“Yes,” Elias says tersely, effectively interrupting Jon’s train of thought. “Don’t. Stay here, with me.”

The instruction is terrifyingly easy to follow with the next cut. The letter opener actually breaks his skin, this time, and slices it open as Elias guides the tip down two, three inches. He hisses and he stays still and he embraces the pain, almost-familiar, just less desperate. He’s not surprised when Elias moves his hand from his hip to Jon’s thigh instead, palm pressing down on where the mostly faint scars are hidden by his trousers.

The next few minutes blur together until Jon can’t tell the difference between himself and his physical existence and the _pain_ , sharp and quick and dull and drawn-out, Elias could be talking, he wouldn’t know, the rapid beating of his heart is too loud in his ears and he’s only vaguely aware of even his own noises. Hisses and whines and whimpers, none of them inherently pained, it’s something else, mostly, he feels very much grounded and linked to the here and now, but at the same time he’s completely lost within all the _sensations_ , the trust he places into Elias, the vague feeling of it being broken with every cut, the impression of every small break and crack in it being fixed just a second later because he’s not dead, because Elias does exactly what he needs him to do, what he wordlessly _asked_ him to do, some quiet form of compelling–

“–’m _talking_ to you. … _Jon_.”

He tries to fight against reality rushing back over him, but Elias’s voice has broken the spell. The clock in his office is ticking, eating away seconds, minutes– He doesn’t know how long he’s been in here, actually. The muscles in his legs and arms are trembling. There’s sweat on his forehead, his shoulders, his hair is clinging to his neck. Sweat on his back, or– no. No, that’s the blood, of course. The heavy scent of copper. He feels a little sick, but not necessarily unpleasantly so. 

When has he moved to clutch the edge of Elias’s desk?

Elias’s hand in his hair, almost gentle this time. Jon can imagine the letter opener, still smooth, shining, expensive, but stained with red now. Can imagine how elegantly Elias holds it between his fingers. Can See it, possibly.

Elias’s voice, barely above a whisper. “Who do you belong to?” The tip presses into his back, hard. There’s a trickle of blood, welling up around the metal. It lazily runs down his back, he can feel it. Can See it, almost.

“The Beholding,” Jon says, voice tight and a little raspy. The answer comes easily, naturally. “You, Elias.”

A pleased hum. “Who – what – are you, Jonathan?”

“Th– The ar–” The word catches in his throat when Elias drags the opener over half of his back in one fluid motion. Jon grits his teeth and digs his nails into the desk.

“Mmhm?” Elias prompts.

“Your archivist,” Jon gasps.

“Indeed,” Elias says, and–

–and just like that, he leans forward to place the letter opener back on bis desk. The metal shimmers red in the light of the unobtrusive desk lamp. 

Elias nudges him off his lap, gently but insistently, and leaves his office without a word. Jon is too … too _something_ to really care. Tired, perhaps; exhausted. Content. He sits down on the carpeted floor and closes his eyes. He doesn’t open them when Elias returns with a first aid kit, and neither of them talk while Elias takes care of his back unceremoniously. 

Eventually, Elias hands him his shirt. “I’d advise against putting the binder back on immediately,” he says, and Jon simply nods and pulls his shirt back on. 

“Thank you,” he says, and then, “Did you enjoy hurting me?” He puts as much energy into the Question as he can manage in his current state. Elias tenses. It’s an almost unnoticeable change, but Jon Sees. For a moment, he’s convinced he won’t receive an answer, but in the end, Elias exhales slowly and his lips twitch into a wicked smile. 

“Let’s just say that it was an indulgence for the both of us and leave it at that, hm?”

Jon laughs weakly, and nods. He’s not sure, but he thinks it’s the answer he wanted. 

He has to grab the edge of the desk again when he moves to stand, his legs shaky, still trembling. Elias places a firm hand against his back, steadying. The fabric of his shirt drags against the cuts – Jon holds his breath for a second at the sharp pain. Then he leans into the touch heavily, rests his back against Elias’s hand. There’s a soft chuckle, and Elias pushes his fingertips against Jon’s skin with more force, for just a second, maybe two, before he pulls away.

“I believe you’ve got work to do, Archivist.”

Jon nods, and looks at Elias for a moment, quietly, tempted, almost, to kiss him. Then he leaves, as quickly as his legs allow. 

For the rest of the day, in the comfortable silence of his office, he catches himself pressing his back against the backrest of the chair multiple times, reveling in the resulting pain. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr @possessed-radios and my podcast sideblog is @shortwaveattentionspan, but you already missed my entire liveblogging of every single episode during the last 3 weeks so that's a shame.


End file.
